Children's Book Classics - Kate Douglas Wiggin Edition: 11 Novels & 120+ Short Stories for Children. Kate Douglas Wiggin
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there, an’ small for her age; but land! she might be a hundred to hear her talk! She kept me jumpin’ tryin’ to answer her! Of all the queer children I ever come across she’s the queerest. She ain’t no beauty—her face is all eyes; but if she ever grows up to them eyes an’ fills out a little she’ll make folks stare. Land, mother! I wish ‘t you could ‘a’ heard her talk.”
“I don’t see what she had to talk about, a child like that, to a stranger,” replied Mrs. Cobb.
“Stranger or no stranger, ‘t would n’t make no difference to her. She’d talk to a pump or a grindstone; she’d talk to herself ruther ‘n keep still.”
“What did she talk about?
“Blamed if I can repeat any of it. She kept me so surprised I didn’t have my wits about me. She had a little pink sunshade—it kind o’ looked like a doll’s umberella, ‘n’ she clung to it like a burr to a woolen stockin’. I advised her to open it up—the sun was so hot; but she said no, ‘t would fade, an’ she tucked it under her dress. ‘It’s the dearest thing in life to me,’ says she, ‘but it’s a dreadful care.’ Them’s the very words, an’ it’s all the words I remember. ‘It’s the dearest thing in life to me, but it’s an awful care!’”—here Mr. Cobb laughed aloud as he tipped his chair back against the side of the house. “There was another thing, but I can’t get it right exactly. She was talkin’ ‘bout the circus parade an’ the snake charmer in a gold chariot, an’ says she, ‘She was so beautiful beyond compare, Mr. Cobb, that it made you have lumps in your throat to look at her.’ She’ll be comin’ over to see you, mother, an’ you can size her up for yourself, I don’ know how she’ll git on with Mirandy Sawyer—poor little soul!”
This doubt was more or less openly expressed in Riverboro, which, however, had two opinions on the subject; one that it was a most generous thing in the Sawyer girls to take one of Aurelia’s children to educate, the other that the education would be bought at a price wholly out of proportion to its real value.
Rebecca’s first letters to her mother would seem to indicate that she cordially coincided with the latter view of the situation.
Chapter II.
Rebecca’s Point of View
DEAR MOTHER,—I am safely here. My dress was not much tumbled and Aunt Jane helped me press it out. I like Mr. Cobb very much. He chews tobacco but throws newspapers straight up to the doors of the houses. I rode outside with him a little while, but got inside before I got to Aunt Miranda’s house. I did not want to, but thought you would like it better. Miranda is such a long word that I think I will say Aunt M. and Aunt J. in my Sunday letters. Aunt J. has given me a dictionary to look up all the hard words in. It takes a good deal of time and I am glad people can talk without stoping to spell. It is much eesier to talk than write and much more fun. The brick house looks just the same as you have told us. The parler is splendid and gives YOU creeps and chills when you look in the door. The furnature is ellergant too, and all the rooms but there are no good sitting-down places exsept in the kitchen. The same cat is here but they never save the kittens and the cat is too old to play with. Hannah told me once you ran away to be married to father and I can see it would be nice. If Aunt M. would run away I think I should like to live with Aunt J. She does not hate me as bad as Aunt M. does. Tell Mark he can have my paint box, but I should like him to keep the red cake in case I come home again. I hope Hannah and John do mot get tired doing my work.
Your afectionate friend
REBECCA.
P. S. Please give the piece of poetry to John because he likes my poetry even when it is not very good. This piece is not very good but it is true but I hope you won’t mind what is in it as you ran away.
This house is dark and dull and dreer
No light doth shine from far or near
Its like the tomb.
And those of us who live herein
Are almost as dead as serrafim
Though not as good.
My guardian angel is asleep
At leest he doth not virgil keep
Ah! Woe is me!
Then give me back my lonely farm
Where none alive did wish me harm
Dear home of youth!
P.S. again. I made the poetry like a piece in a book but could not get it right at first. You see “tomb” and “good” do not sound well together but I wanted to say “tomb” dreadfully and as serrafim are always good I could n’t take that out. I have made it over now. It does not say my thoughts as well but think it is more right. Give the best one to John as he keeps them in a box with his bird’s eggs. This is the best one.
SUNDAY THOUGHTS (By Rebecca Rowena Randall)
This house is dark and dull and drear
No light doth shine from far or near
Nor ever could.
And those of us who live herein
Are most as dead as seraphim
Though not as good.
My guardian angel is asleep
At least he doth no vigil keep
But far doth roam.
Then give me back my lonely farm
Where none alive did wish me harm,
Dear childhood home!
DEAR MOTHER,—I am thrilling with unhappyness this morning. I got that out of a book called Cora The Doctor’s Wife. Cora’s husband’s mother was very cross and unfeeling to her like Aunt M. to me. I wish Hannah had come instead of me for it was Hannah that Aunt M. wanted and she is better than I am and does not answer back so quick. Are there any peaces of my buff calico. Aunt J. wants enough to make a new waste, button behind, so I wont look so outlandish. The stiles are quite pretty in Riverboro and those at Meeting quite ellergant, more so than in Temperance.
This town is stilish, gay and fair,
And full of wellthy riches rare,
But I would pillow on my arm
The thought of my sweet Brookside Farm.
School is pretty good. The Teacher can answer more questions than the Temperance one but not so many as I can ask. I am smarter than all the girls but one but not so smart as two boys. Emma Jane can add and subtract in her head like a streek of lightning and knows the speling book right through but has no thoughts of any kind. She is in the Third Reader but does not like stories in books. I am in the Sixth Reader but just because I cannot say the seven multiplication Table Miss Dearborn threttens to put me in the baby primer class with Elijah and Elisha Simpson little twins.
Sore is my heart and bent my stubborn pride,
With Lijah and with Lisha am I tied,
My soul recoyles like Cora Doctor’s Wife,
Like her I feer I cannot bare this life.
I am going to try for the speling prize but fear I cannot get it. I would not care but wrong speling looks dreadful in poetry. Last Sunday when I found seraphim in the dictionary I was ashamed I had made it serrafim but seraphim is not a word you can guess at like another long one, outlandish, in this letter which spells itself. Miss Dearborn says use the words you can spell and if you cant spell seraphim make angel do but angels are not just the same as seraphims. Seraphims are brighter whiter and have bigger wings and I think are older and longer dead than angels which are just freshly dead and after a long time in heaven around the great white throne grow to be seraphims.
I sew on brown gingham